The Roads Not Travelled
by Laurene Aura
Summary: Lost in this place of the Fade where everything that could have been possible and never happened is gathered, Solas dreams. Tightly wrapped in the Veil, he travels from world to world, looking for one where the Inquisitor he loved and killed lives on after him, dream after dream after dream... and meets many new other Inquisitors on his way.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

That was not supposed to happen.  
 _She_ was never supposed to happen.  
Not to him, _not like that._

He had a purpose, a sacred mission, a broken world to repair – he had the biggest mistake ever to fix, and a serious wrong to right.  
He had amends to make. He had the lost elvhen to bring back to their former glory.  
He had serious work to get done.  
He had all that.  
For a year he had dwelved among mortals, to ultimately witness the disaster he'd been waiting for, and watch the skies wail in despair when his orb in Corypheus' hands had teared them open.  
And then, he had met her.  
She was not supposed to exist. She was a parody of what her people should have been, had he not happened on them. She believed in would-be gods that deserved none of her faith.  
She enjoyed talking to birds, and mabaris and hostile _dragons._  
She would get lost in Skyhold every now and again and be found hours later, perched upon some very unstable roof.  
She would wander into the ruins of long-forgotten temples on her own, lose track of time when staring adoringly at some decrepit murals - and get attacked by some random undead and very unfriendly being.  
She was… she was walking _nonsense_.  
Annoyingly tolerant, generous and kind.  
A weapon who did not want to kill. A ruler who did not want to be feared.  
Way too curious. Way too clever.  
Unexpected.

She should never have existed.  
And still she was born somehow. Destiny shaped her to be its tool, and fate placed her on the cruel road where she met him.  
And he met her.  
And the dread wolf strayed from his path of war.  
And the lonely forgotten soul walked alone no more.

He tried. With the mighty focus of an almost-god, with the strongest willpower, with the most dedicated mind, he did try.  
For her, he tried.  
To be a healer and not a destroyer of worlds.  
Somewhere along the path though, a darker resolve appeared on a gloomy day, around a shattered orb: this world could not, _would not,_ be repaired.  
It had to be burned down to ashes, and from the dust something new would emerge, built sturdy on the ruins of all this chaos.  
He could help the elvhen be born anew. He could shatter the Veil and open the Fade again. And he certainly would prevent any of the evanuris from ascending to power once more.  
He had to let her go.  
he had to _make_ her go.  
He had to tear her apart from him.  
He had to make her _hate_ him, for she would never leave on her own, bless her loving heart.  
And then he would have to steal the breath from her lungs, when the world she knew would cease to be.

She used to favour Ghilan'nain, before he wiped her face clean of the vallaslin.  
He remembered that well: how much joy and pride the dread wolf had taken in caring for the golden halla that had fallen between his paws.  
And he did still care afterwards. Very much.  
Too much.  
They knew.

Somehow, they guessed. They found proof, they gathered evidence: they uncovered Fen'Harel hiding inside Solas.  
They decided to stop him.  
Who were they serving? Who gave the order? That, he still does not know. Why should he care? They harmed her, and he took revenge on them, and all is said. Who they were does not matter.  
They thought they could get to him, through her.  
They stole her. Trapped, abducted, and tortured her – in the hope that her suffering would reach him, and that he would come for her. In the hope that the scent of her blood unfairly shed would lure him to them.  
They really believed they could mislead the Dread Wolf.  
They honestly thought they could get away with harming the golden halla he cherished above all other mortals.  
 _Silly children._  
He killed them all. Almost with a single thought. A whisper really – nothing fancy, one simple word, a clear meaning, and a powerful intent. _Just be dead already._  
And they died.  
All mortals in the area met their Maker that day.

She did, too.  
He never intended for her to be included in the lot of them. He had recovered so much of what he used to be, how could he have anticipated that his own mind would have a will of its own and betray his heart?  
And still.  
She died.  
At his hand.  
Maybe some part of him knew she was his one weakness, and that she had to get ridden of.  
Maybe some part of him saw her as a threat.  
Maybe she was making him too much like her.  
He was supposed to shatter the world. She wanted to make it better.  
He had started to wonder if maybe she could be a tiny bit right.

That was not supposed to happen.  
She was never supposed to happen.  
Not to him, not like that.  
Not to be loved by him above all else, and not to love him so completely.  
She deserved so much better, and he did not deserve her at all.

And now the time to question his choices has come.

His enemies wiped out all around him, he stands surrounded by dozens of dead men and women, powerful mages and strong soldiers alike… and the only thing he can think of is the day he broke her heart, moments after freeing her of all chains. The look in her eyes. As if he had just blown her inner light out. Her face bare in the moonlight, unshed tears reflecting the stars above.  
Now he stands there, clinging to her broken body as if he could somehow make her alive again.  
He knows there is no light left for him in this world anymore.  
He could have remembered her alive and smiling, planning over the war table, running after some mad templar in the hills, yelling confused battle orders to Dorian and the Iron Bull and Cole, to Vivienne and Cassandra and Sera, to Blackwall and Varric and himself. He could have kept the memory of her grin whenever she looked at him, the sound of her laugh, the scent of her hair, the softness of her curves.  
So warm, oh so warm in his arms, her heart beating so fast against his, her skin as pale as his, locked in a fiery embrace, caught in the midst of a whirlwind of passion. Her eyes so blue, so deep, so fierce, ablaze with her inner fire.  
Now the only memory he'll be able to recall will be the emptiness of these eyes as she gazes upon eternity, cold and colder in his arms.

And the Fade sings of his sorrow.  
Everywhere he walks, the Fade knows how much Solas misses Miriel, how gladly the dread wolf would have traded a chance to redeem the elvhen for getting his love back alive at his side; and to oblivion with a better world.  
And so, the Dreamwalker dreams.  
Lost in this place of the Fade where everything that could have been possible and never happened is gathered, he dreams. Tightly wrapped in the Veil, he travels from world to world, looking for one where she lives on after him, dream after dream after dream.  
Lost in time and space, he wanders between realities, body anchored to the one where he loved the Inquisitor, his heart hollow and his mind filled with despair.

Once upon a time, on the road he travelled, there was Miriel.  
Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was…


	2. Ves

**Chapter 01 - Ves**

Character Creator - Selma  
 _○ right after 'From the ashes' ○_

* * *

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was Vaesryn Lavellan.

And the Dreamwalker dreams of him, of June markings embedded in a smiling face, battle scars telling another story above the vallaslin.  
 _'Ves'_ , the wind whispers when he gets out on his balcony to clear his head.  
 _'Ves'_ , it calls to him when he looks out from the battlements.  
 _'Ves'_ , they yell on the battlefield when he gets hurt, these others that he met in his own world.  
 _'Ves!'_ , they sigh when sarcasm gets the best of him.

Oh, he's so young, that one - childhood memories are not so far, a mother's voice threatening her rebellious son with Fen'Harel's wrath if he doesn't do his chores. Well, maybe not properly _young_ , but still able to see the beauty in all things, even in the middle of a battlefield. Willing to see the best in people, no matter what they could have done before.  
Suspicious, when trust is not earned yet; and after that, loyal until the end. Caring, and loving. Helping whenever he can. Proud of his beliefs, not afraid to show kindness, not ashamed to show mercy.  
Quite like _her_.

He's a popular leader, this one: his advisers like him, especially the antivan ambassador. She's so fond of him, the lovely Josephine, glad to see how hard he tries to learn diplomatic tricks and speech niceties, to become more than just another dalish archer. He's a winner of hearts above all else – he even succeeded in winning over Cassandra's. Does she still make small disgusted noises about this Inquisitor's poor choice of a lover? He bets she doesn't – in his world, she did not either, not until the truth about him being Fen'Harel all along was revealed. Surely, this Cassandra is as much a support for Ves as she used to be for Miriel.

With a single thought, light as a feather, he inquires about the Inquisitor's companions. Some familiar faces: a tevine mage, a qunari warrior, a brave dwarf, and himself among them, a quieter version, not an enemy yet. Obviously, Ves is fascinated by his stories about the Veil, the Fade, and everything magical. _'Solas'_ is more… relaxed, here. Glad to share a little of his knowledge about ancient times. Happy to meet a Dalish willing to learn the old ways. As proud of his origins as she was, the golden halla that must walk somewhere in this dream, _where is she now?_ She's nowhere to be seen, around the Inquisitor that quietly ascends the rookery steps. And where is _he_ going, in the darkest hours of the night?

He's headed toward a song.  
Somewhere above, under the roof, a mourning soul is singing the tale of a broken heart.  
Someone in this world knows the same utter despair that poisons his soul. The ugly bitterness that fills the hole in his heart where Miriel once stood and shined so bright.  
Ves doesn't know such feelings, not yet anyway; and a glimpse at the future lets Solas guess how hard it may become for this Inquisitor, later on his path.  
For now, he remains free of such a burden: his concern is mostly for the singer. Concealed in the shadows, he stops, not wanting to intrude, and carefully he gazes upward, as if he could see her all alone up there.

This is Leliana singing.  
Ves knows of whom she sings: the Hero of Ferelden, the love of her life, brave Rasha from the Dales. Honest and caring, and oh Maker how strongly Ves reminds her of him sometimes! Rasha who wanted to play no game, Rasha who decided to settle no trick.  
Rasha who sacrificed himself and slaughtered the archdemon.  
And she sings, the young bard, the Chantry sister, the master spy; she sings for a love lost to her forever, for a soulmate gone far beyond her reach. She sings, quietly on her own, when no one's supposed to overhear. She sings softly, when the moon is high and the stars smile down on her, so that she will not break down and cry under the sun.

Ves is gone.  
Silent in the darkness, he retreats carefully, choosing another place to stroll around, leaving Leliana to mourn in peace.  
But the Dreamwalker doesn't follow. On her desk, half torn and stained with what looks like blood, a scroll has been discarded. A familiar handwriting stretches upon it, forming the first sentences of a report.

" _My lady,  
We arrived this morning in the Exalted Plains. Camp is settled where you requested.  
We've seen some darkspawn close by, please send-"_

Another hand fills the other half of the scroll.

" _Sister Nightingale,  
The advanced camp has been attacked. We have 8 injured and 1 casualty.  
I don't know the appropriate funeral rites for Scout Miriel, she was the only Dalish among us, please send instructions.  
Camp is now secured. We're waiting for the Inquisitor.  
Scout Harding."_

And _here_ she is.  
Dead again.  
He will not find solace in this world.

Whispering a blessing to Ves in the night, wishing him well, the Dreamwalkers wanders on.  
Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was...


	3. Jonas

**Chapter 02 - Jonas**

Character Creator - Nicholas  
○ _right after 'Here Lies the Abyss'_ ○

* * *

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was Jonas Trevelyan.

And in that time, upon a desk in Skyhold's guest wing, sits a letter waiting to be sent.  
A letter addressed to Elena Amell.  
A letter that the Dreamwalker picks up, not ashamed to read someone else's private thoughts.  
If he was drawn to the scroll, then it is related to _her_ somehow - and then, he feels entitled to read.

 _Where are you this time?_

 _○•○•○•○_

My beloved,

Our mission at the Adamant has not ended as well as we might have expected. I am alive though, and amazingly quite unharmed. You'll be glad to know that our Inquisitor friend strictly forbade me from staying behind when we got trapped in the Fade – I'll have much more to tell you about this, and I don't feel confident enough to have it written on a scroll. It will have to wait until I am back at your side.  
(Yes, I did think of staying behind. And yes, I'm well aware you'll be mad at me. My love, you'd have done just the same, don't even try to deny it.)

Anyway, I survived, and Ansell sacrificed himself for the sake of the group. I can't believe Hawke is gone… Even if we had some disagreements in the past, he was a true hero, one that usually comes only once in a lifetime. And I had three born in mine, lucky me.  
You came first, you saved Ferelden, and now you're trying to save the Grey Wardens as well… And you also agreed to marry me, that was certainly the bravest deed of them all!  
And then Hawke came. Not cut from the same cloth obviously, but at least he did try to make things better. Failed completely, let Anders live, but still. He tried. I don't want to marry this one though, we just don't see eye to eye enough about anything… Besides, _your_ beard is less scratchy than _his_.  
And then _he_ came… Our Inquisitor friend. Never going to marry this one either, I swear; he's already somewhat claimed, if I interpreted the glances he kept shooting at that tevine mage who went into the Fade with us correctly. _(Speaking of the Tevine, you'd like his mustache I think. It's_ _glorious_ _.)_

This morning, when I came down from the rookery, he was in the library with this Pavus. Comforting him, it seemed – from what I overheard, the Tevine had just received news that a slave of his family had been killed covering up for him. Some dalish woman named Mira or Miranda, I think. Well, slavery is bad and Jonas really doesn't agree with the system – and still, there was no judgement in him at all when Dorian told him what happened.

I've talked to Leliana, you know – we had an extended chat in this raven-den of hers. She likes him, this Jonas. You know what she told me? That he reminds her of you, because _'he'd never turn on a friend, ever'_. He also talked her out of having some people stabbed, bled out, beheaded, burnt and melted, if I recall correctly – I found her quite softened, almost as she used to be, back then during the Blight. She said I should go and have a drink with this group of _'thugs he usually hangs out with at the Herald'_. She had such a fond face when she told me that, I swear I felt compelled to investigate said 'thugs'.  
Well, the first one turns out to be Cullen, your flirt from the Circle Tower… Small world, heh?  
Then there's one of our fellow Grey Wardens – Blackwall. Did we meet him before? Name's familiar. Beard's impressive.  
And the third is… I don't know if I have adequate words to describe him. Remember your Sten, all gloomy and highty and judgy ? Well, this Qunari is quite the exact opposite. He drinks, he brawls, he sings – my ears are still ringing, Maker help me.  
Anyway, don't believe anything Leliana may write to you about my… investigation. I _might_ have ended up half-drowned at the bottom of a mead barrel, but it was all an astute strategy on my part, to get closer and to know them better. The Inquisitor himself said the four of us were 'nice chaps'. The orlesian mage, Madame de Fer, said we were 'a disgrace'. I strongly advise that you give more credit to the Inquisitor's judgment in this, my love. Really.

He's really special, this Jonas. Battle-scarred and passionate wyvern hunter, and still so kind to the weird boy with the weird hat that keeps blurting out the weirdest things ever. _(He told me of a lady that 'was named after the kindness of the heart, but she assumed it was after the purse hanging from a belt'. I haven't the faintest idea of whom he's referring to.)_ I hope you get to meet His Inquisitorial Grace someday. He's not so good with books, not so good with speeches and niceties and anything diplomatic either, but he's a kind soul. Generous and open-hearted, you'd like him. Quite a lot, my dear.

Well, time's up. (Leliana says hi.)

I can't wait to be back at your side, my love. Be well until then, and keep in mind that you don't have my shield above you, so no running straight into deadly traps, please.

I love you.  
Alistair.

 _○•○•○•○_

So _here_ she is.  
Mira, or Miranda, or _Miriel_.  
Enslaved by a tevine family, and killed.  
No solace here either…  
And the Dreamwalker wanders away.

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was...


	4. Iris

**Chapter 3 - Iris**

Character Creator - Hannah  
 _○ after 'In hushed whispers' ○_

* * *

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was Iris Lavellan.

 _Lavellan, Lavellan_ \- the name sings in the warm breeze, and the Dreamwalker holds his breath - just for a second, just long enough to get his bearings and find out where he is, because, obviously, this wind is not cold enough for Skyhold, and the light is too bright. Sand, there is a lot of sand around, piled in dunes, overflowing from every height. Rock is the other master here, endless natural walls stretch far away in all directions. The place feels… acrid. Dry throat, dry eyes, dry skin; and the sun fiercely alight in the sky burns without mercy, overlooking people and things alike. But still… no as hot as it should be.

His brow furrowed, Fen'Harel tries to match his own memories of the place with what he is actually seeing all around. The Forbidden Oasis looks… different. There is more water running in the depth of the ravines: he can hear it bubbling over the rocks here and there, along with several waterfalls that were just sand and rock in the world he left behind. Trees show a little green, scarce but resilient, and this unexpected intensity of life stirs his curiosity. As he comes closer, walking carelessly under some ancient arches and around half crumbled pillars, he catches a better glimpse of the oasis sheltered between the cliffs.

Water shines pure and clear, and prolific species of plant and wildlife thrive wherever the eye sets. A shiver runs down his spine: he knows some of these species, he knows they have gone extinct in his world during his slumber, and seeing them again here is… painful, somehow. Just another hard reminder of everything he lost. This world feels so young, oh so much younger that the one he left! Walking among its inhabitants makes him feel agonizingly old. He doesn't have time to think of it any further, though – _Lavellan_ , the wind sings, and he has to follow, led on by the whisper of the breeze and the tremendous hope of finding her again.

There is no Miriel in the oasis. The Inquisition camp is here, and he sees familiar faces: Varric Thetras is lovingly cleaning Bianca the crossbow in the shade, and the Iron Bull is quite busy talking the soldiers into a game of cards. Solas pouts in disapproval when Sera comes out from a tent and sits to rearrange the arrows in her quiver, making some rude comment about the requisitions officer. She's apart from herself in this dimension too, it seems; but where is she, his beloved Lavellan? His gaze follows the rogue as she walks to the bank. The water in the pool ripples, a head emerges; and then a whole body, clearly female, barely covered by a linen tunic that doesn't hide much. Sera's laugh reverberates in the ravine, and when the women kiss, the sorrow and the longing in the Dread Wolf's soul get so deep that he almost breaks down. Almost, just for one second; and then his mind takes over, muffles the cries that threaten to escape from his heart, and he eavesdrops on them a little longer. They obviously love one another dearly, united in their search of absolute freedom, and maybe in their lack of maturity. This Inquisitor is driven by her emotions, he guesses, tends to make important decisions in moments of sheer impulsivity, without any regard for the aftermath of her whims.

Sera calls her Iris, and all of her screams of youth. She has short hair, of a brown that shines coppery under the sun like the wood of saplings, and eyes of a green as tender as blossoms and young leaves. She is spring, one cannot doubt it: immature and idealistic, yet strong and determined to walk freely, still able to marvel at the wonders of nature and life, still able to dream, to plan a bright future and a better life.

His Miriel was a creature of summer.

She had sun-kissed hair, as gold as the wheat in the fields waiting for the harvest, warm to the touch when she was resting in his arms, once their passion had been adequately honoured.  
Her eyes were the deepest blue, as if they contained the horizon when the evening sky descended to embrace the sea, and her vallaslin glowed just a shade darker, like sapphires embedded in her skin.  
There was heat in her, a fire that touched everything and everyone, as if she had been her own sun casting light around and warming souls and hearts alike. She was serene, and calm, and strong: there was power in her certainties, and she was sure of herself, full of self-confidence and determined to redeem the entire world's past mistakes.  
She was summer, and when she died autumn had come at last, a foreboding of the everlasting winter that was on the lookout for his time to rule.  
He burnt for her. Now just ashes are left, and the bitter hollow in his chest.  
She was summer, and this world is still basking in the glory of a hopeful spring.

She is not here. She never was; and maybe she would never be.

' _Be well, young Lavellan'_ , he wishes upon the breeze, in a single thought. _'Grow strong, grow wise, and maybe this world will never need saving.'_

His journey awaits, and the Dreamwalker wanders off.  
Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was…


	5. Veronika

**Chapter 4 - Veronika**

Character Creator - Sue-Mari  
 _○ During 'Wicked eyes and wicked hearts' ○_

* * *

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was Veronika Cadash.

Stepping out of the Fade, swiftly borne on a silent whisper, the Dreamwalker opens his eyes and looks around, trying to find out where from the Anchor has called to him this time. So far, what he sees is… white, endless alleys of it. White marble columns supporting various balconies, white wooden arbours laden with delicate flowers and climbing vines, white light cast by the moon above. White, yes, and there is also blue, and so much gold that his eyes water a little. Blue walls, blue carpets, blue curtains; golden fountains, golden jewels, golden _people_.

Music plays in the distance; he can hear laughs and giggles, and some more specific noises hinting at quite private activities being presently thoroughly conducted behind closed doors. This is one hell of a party, it seems, judging by the amount of excitement, greediness, lust and anger that hovers all over the place. Closing his eyes for a second, Fen'Harel takes in a deep breath, of an air so thick with perfumes and scents that he can almost taste them all. Still, there is one more potent than the others, and a shiver of anticipation runs down his back when he distinctly identifies the sweet fragrance of danger. There is violence buried here, some hidden ambitions and a wild craving for power, ancient jealousy and mad hunger for revenge. That calls to him, wakes up echoes of a past that never was in this world.

Beautiful.  
And poisonous.  
This place is like the sweetest flower, petals widely spread under the sun, flirtatious and inviting. Full of smiles, full of elegance, full of promises.  
Gorgeous, and yet harbouring so many ugly currents under the surface! Fed with poison, so that it lures people to their utter demise, and stands ready to eat them alive.  
This is a charming carnivorous plant, and even in the dream the temptation is strong to let himself be dragged away by the plots, and the schemes, and the treasons that make the Game.

This is Halamshiral, and the Anchor is alive here tonight.  
Twice over.  
A real one, strong and fierce, burning bright and green to close a rift; and the shadow of one that never was, the memory of a mark that was never inflicted. He concentrates, his mind following the faintest trail, looking for an echo buried under the smooth skin of a palm that never carried such a scar. And finally, he catches a glimpse of her: in a servant livery, with blond hair cut short without mercy, wearing no vallaslin but a creased brow. For a second, he doubts that this is really her, his lover, and then he sees her eyes, blue as the deepest sea, carrying a resolve so strong that he recognizes her instantly.

The music suddenly stops, and laughter turns to screams. The scent gets thicker, as if blood was flowing upon him, and the Dread Wolf winces. He hasn't really found her yet, just caught her image in the minds of the guests here and there, but still urgency screams at him from every sliver of his soul, and he starts rushing forwards with the power of an almost-god, searching frantically. Surely she's not far away, she can't be, she's wearing a servant livery; his memory runs wildly and he remembers what happened in _his_ Winter Palace. The elves that served ambassador Briala; the bodies they scattered in closets and stairs and beds all over the place. Certainly, his Miriel could never – _would_ never…?

Here - a flash of green, the clash of steel, a lovely woman under a mask fighting for her life. The Inquisitor is here, and he wastes a few seconds staring at her. A dwarf, clearly - ' _Cadash'_ , the moon whispers, _'Veronika'_ , yells the man with the shield. Blackwall is there, beard bravely facing attacks that should shatter him to pieces but that he manages to block. Fancy magic rides the air as well, in a display of elegance absolutely fit for Orlais, filled equally with arrogance and pride - there is Dorian, waving his staff around with a flourish of grace, making the show for the assistance. And here he is as well, serious Solas still pretending to be just another apostate, just another wandering elf. Just lying through his teeth with every breath, lying without any remorse to these people who believe they are his friends.

Where _is_ she? He was drawn here by the Anchor fiercely carried by Veronika, by the strength of her beliefs and the softness of her heart, wisely concealed but so warm beneath the weight of her responsibilities. A caring older sister for her younger sibling, a redeemer of lost causes, a protector of all – yes, they are similar, but she is not the one he is looking for. _'Run, my lady!'_ a familiar voice yells upon a balcony, and instantly his attention goes there. Blond hair, blue eyes, servant livery, and a dark resolve so fierce it buries all the rest underneath - here she is, his beloved. Fighting the guards trying to arrest Briala, it seems - she is fighting them alone, unarmed, with just the echo of the Anchor on her palm, invisible to everyone but to him. Fighting for her freedom, for her beliefs, for the one she sees as her liege lady - and dying, because in this life she never had the Inquisition to strengthen her, she never met allies nor friends.

He has arrived just in time to witness her death again.

He sees it all. The sword that pierces her breast, just above her heart. The scarlet wave that dyes her clothing. The void that fills her gaze. He almost hears her last breath, as she falls on the marble and doesn't move anymore, all life gone.  
White, and blue, and gold.  
And red.

There is too much grief here for him to bear.  
Without a look behind, he wanders away, resuming his quest.

Once upon another time, on a road not travelled, there was…


End file.
